


Gensokyo Yukkuris: Not City Sect

by AlgaeNymph



Category: Touhou Project
Genre: Dry Humor, Gen, Inappropriate Humor, Lectures, POV First Person, Speculation, Yukkuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 21:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4893298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlgaeNymph/pseuds/AlgaeNymph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patchouli is hired to exterminate a pest that Alice has been plagued with since the emergence of Yukkuris in Gensokyo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gensokyo Yukkuris: Not City Sect

**Author's Note:**

> For those who don't know, yukkuris are (technically) sapient paste buns modeled after Touhou characters. They're generally unintelligent, and often get themselves into horrendous situations. However, they're not usually depicted alongside actual Touhou characters; this is my second fic exploring what would happen if they were.

    “Good morning, Miss Patchouli!”

    I awaken to the dulcet tones of my familiar, though I suspect she’s otherwise.  The voice is too close, even for her, and there’s a slight weight on my chest.  I open my eyes-”

    “Take it easy, Miss Patchouli.”

    Resting on my thankfully slight bosom (because I’m not _that_ kind of magician) is a yukkuri, a species unique enough to technically be a kingdom.  They are sapient pastry buns, specifically _manjuu_ , who take on the likeness of Gensokyo’s most notable inhabitants.  Notability is important because yukkuri in the likeness of the Red-White and the damned Black-White, who have been everywhere, are by far the most common.  Equally important is proximity, meaning that yukkuri of a particular likeness tend to live where the template individual appears the most.

    “Mukyuu, take it easy, Miss Patchouli.”

    I am no exception.  I gently grab and push the Koakuma-likeness off my chest and onto my lap, then look around for those in my likeness; they’re notoriously fragile.  The voice sounded ahead and a bit to the left, so I turn my head right.  A few koas at the edge of the bed, but nothing near my arm.  I check left and see the same.  Satisfied I won’t crush any innocents, I lift myself out of bed.

    “Good morning, Miss Patchouli!”

    “Miss Patchouli’s getting up!”

    “Mukyuu, take it easy, Miss Patchouli.”

    “What is easy Miss Patchouli going to do today?  Mukyuu.”

    I don’t know how these things came to exist (or where that nonsense speech tic of my likenesses derives from).  Their ecology is certainly cruel enough to have been devised by nature.  Their biology, however fascinating, is worryingly maladaptive.  Yukkuris taste better when they suffer, but being eaten serves no purpose in their life cycle: no parasitism, no reproduction through excrement, nothing.  While this could be a mere evolutionary quirk that got inherited because it doesn’t interfere overmuch with yukkuri reproduction, and may be best for local ecologies given their notoriously explosive reproduction, I refuse to dismiss the feeling that these creatures were intelligently designed.

    In a thaumaturgical environment such as Gensokyo, evolving to look like specific individuals, particularly powerful ones, makes sense.  Evolving to be victims, however, makes sense in no environment I care to contemplate; I have, and wish to never again.  I’ve speculated that they could be a food substitute for youkai, but find that unlikely.  The _other_ black-white magician certainly could create life, but she would never intentionally cause suffering.  I’ve even gone as far as to have my colleage, Satori, interrogate Lady Hijiri on the matter, confirming that Myourenji’s matriarch does not consider a sacrificial species expedient means.

    If increased flavor from suffering serves a function, it would be to make humans more youkai-like, savoring the taste of terror.  I can see the fell hand of the cynical Lady Yakumo in this endeavor, but even she is thankfully limited in her actions.  Lady Saigyouji may be corrupted by a near-sapient victim species – this could well be the intention, given how easily she reigns in the worst excesses of the Youkai Sage – but the Yama would descend on such deviant cruelty like Biblical judgment.

    The Yama’s pet shinigami regaled me with such a tale.  How I wish to witness-

    “Mukyuu, Miss Patchouli, are you okay?”

    Distracted from my reverie, I _do_ , however, know what it’s like to be an active goddess: bothersome.  This is in spite of yukkuris in my likeness being relatively intelligent and ironically personable: friendly, in contrast with my usual indifference.

    I would rather not imagine how Miss Margatroid feels about her likenesses, her Makaian acculturation likely giving her a disturbing imagination.  Perhaps that would explain the majority of yukkuris patterned after her, but I’ve never known of any rapaciousness from her, in spite of the Black-White’s sordid drunken ramblings.

    Miss Margatroid is also the reason I’m bothering to leave the comfort of bed in the first place, as she sought my thaumaturgical expertise in controlling the yukkuri infesting her property.  I live for unique work as much as I do sedate reading, so I am willing to leave the house today.

    I -ungh- push myself out of bed, the koa on my lap fluttering off, and walk out of my sparse spare bedroom – it’s a small reading room with a bed, really – and into the library, making sure to keep my gaze down lest I messily crush a yukkuri underfoot.  I’d actually feel guilty about that sort of thing. 

    For that and other reasons, such as comfort and stealth, I prefer to float rather than walk, but Meiling insists I receive regular exercise.  I have no patience for my comfortable walking pace, so I walk briskly enough to labor my breathing.  This pace is straining and nauseating, but such discomfort doesn’t deter me; in spite of my poor constitution, my pain threshold would be the pride of any athlete.

    I, however, put more pride in my library.  It technically doesn’t have a name, but “Voile,” French for “veiled,” often gets put in somewhere: “The Library of Voile,” “The Voile Archives,” and so forth.  To me, it is simply home, with only the most skilled burglar able to surpass it’s protections – an infuriatingly common occurrence.

    The anger eases my physical discomfort as I stride through the multistoried shelves of my domain.  It is not simply a library, but a workshop where the field of thaumatology transcends from pure to applied (and never mind the puling of mind-dead academicians who feel practical application sullies the Art).  Given how every table space has been claimed by semi-literate, and therefore super-genius, yukkuris, I’ve decided that research into that particular infestation would be productive.

    At least I’ve been able to put my collection of children’s books to use.  I’ve even found myself smiling at the simple enjoyment they have for the stories, as I have the stories Mother read to me.

    She was gone too fast…

    Focus!  I’ve a terrarium to check in on.

    I continue my trek, looking at the studious patchoulis and the vexingly flirtatious and boastful marisas as they meander on my reading tables.  The koakumas fluttering through the stacks keep the marisas behaving, gleefully carrying off miscreants to wherever the predatory remilias and flandres roam.

    The commonplace usage of personal names as common nouns has made Koa notably apoplectic.  I’ve tried to reassure her that languages evolve, and that this usage is both accurate and convenient, but she keeps bringing up that one time I spelled “fairy” five different ways on the same page.  Bah, what does an editing devil know about creativity?

    As I near my destination, one of the koakumas swoops down and snatches a marisa.

    “IT’S LIKE FLYING IN THE SKY!  PUT DOWN THE GWEAT BAWIZA!”

    Uch, that thing is defecating in mid-air.  Thankfully, there are enough sakuya yukkuris that the rancid paste is cleaned in short order.

    Finally, I am at the entrance to my largest workshop, where I built a wooden moon rocket propelled by divine power.  Nothing so grand is in its place; instead, there is a 17-meter stainless steel cube only the most ascetic of technocrats could love.  I have dubbed this monstrosity “Easy Place 6,” in homage to the similar experiment Universe 25. 

    This apparatus is designed to provide shelter and unlimited food to yukkuris descended from morally ambiguous wild type stock.  Even with typical yukkuri negligence, the population explodes and overcrowds in about a week.  The population begins to lower and stabilize once the yukkuris literally tear each other apart to get closer to the food dispensers.  Being near-sapient beings, the Yama will not let this dreadful state continue indefinitely, leaving me forced to euthanize the subjects, or “yuthanize” in English when I wish to bother Koa.

    She’s not the only one capable of pranks.

    Like it’s namesake, the number designates its iteration.  This is my sixth attempt, although I honestly feel I’ve reached the point of diminishing returns on the third.  While I am interested in repeating this experiment with more intelligent yukkuris, their agreeable nature means I would have to care for them if unable to sell them as pets, and even the best-behaved and most talented species are fecund enough that there’s minimal demand.

    For Yama-related reasons, raising damned-for-certain yukkuris for food is similarly forbidden.

    Sitting at the chair and desk set up in front of my project is a hobgoblin, Rob, studying several introductory grimoires from the Outside.  They’re all the same, base diviniations and blessings, but educational to those who carefully study their similarities and differences.  Unlike many other magicians I have been acquainted with, I see no problem with educating domestic fey: hobgoblins who understand magic are more useful to me than those who don’t, it costs me nothing, and gains me great favor with a certain activist colleague.  I’ll endure her excessive praise if it means access to her library.

    “How goes the population?” I ask the hobgoblin technician.

    He looks up from his paperback tomes.  “Jus’ enough space fer them to move about, but they’ve been yellin’ at each other fer a couple days, maybe.  I logged down when I first heard it.”

    It’s amazing how useful a species capable of simple tasks can do, so very much unlike fairies.  “How is the machine functioning?”

    “It’s functionin’, no problems.  You made it.”

    “Flattery, is it?  Are you looking for a promotion?”

    He hmphs a laugh.  “I’ll be gettin’ a job change soon enough, I’ve seen you lookin’ more bored than usual with this thing here.”  He thumbs at Easy Place 6.

    “Very good.  Carry on,” I say before pulling out a communication orb.  Another marvelous practical application of void magic, which I shan’t digress into right now.  I put these to good use during the Hot Springs Incident to communicate with and track the Black-White, and currently put them to more mundane use in contacting my client.  I give it a squeeze, focus my mind on Alice Marga-

    “Yes?”  Answers an understandably weary voice.

    “This is Patchouli.  I’ll be leaving immediately; expect me to arrive in about half an hour, barring unforeseen delays.”

    “Good.  I want these things gone.  See you soon,” she says, before closing the connection.

    Now ready to leave, I look up, and float up to the skyli-

    “Miss Patchouli, don’t forget your coffee!”

    I float myself down the six meters I began and turn to Koakuma, the original, with a tray laden with cakes and coffee.  I won’t have time for much more than the briefest repasts, but I’m too loath to turn down the finest coffee in Gensokyo.

    I pick up and nibble on one of the cakes – mmm, lemon-lime – as Koakuma pours I her special coffee.  I’m not sure whether it’s due to the familiar bond or her devotion, but she possesses an empathy for my various tastes, mixing both the creams and grounds perfectly.  I put down the cake and accept Koa’s offered cup.  Today, it’s a blend of Brazilian and Costsa Rican, with heavy-

    I look up at her.  “I was wondering when you would serve me ‘Great Sage of the Forest.’”

    She smiles with faux innocence.  “You _are_ a _youkai_ magician, you should be a _little_ cannibalistic.”

    Puckish bint, she knows I’m too obligated, and impatient even if I weren’t, to stay and correct her two errors.  Just as well, as she knows exactly how she’s incorrect.  I believe I’ve lectured everyone I’ve met on how ‘youkai magician’ is improper nomenclature, and it should be obvious that consuming a species resembling me doesn’t make me a cannibal.

    Dining on fine carrion sinner with Satori does.

    I take another sip of Koakuma’s fine coffee, savoring the flavor of agonized patchouli.  A shame more of them aren’t scum.

    I finish the tiny cup quickly – Koa knows I’m in a rush to get done with whatever has me leave the library – then grab a vanilla-orange cake.  As I motion to leave-

    Koa pouts.  “No goodbye kiss?”

    I give a light smile.  “You use your tongue, and I’m in a hurry.”  And she uses it well.  I always look forward to her reading me a story, then physically pleasuring me as I fall asleep.

    Currently, however, I have work to do.  I nod goodbye, pop the cake into my mouth, and finally float towards my hanger’s skylight.

    “Goodbye, Miss Patchouli!”

    I look down to see Koakuma silently waving up at me, then look around to see her yukkuri likenesses gaily flapping about, bidding me farewell.  They’re thankfully not so close that I have to manoeuvre through them like danmaku.

    I incant a simple sun spell just before I exit the hanger, letting my eyes instantly adjust to the sudden light change.  It’s very early morning, but the sun has rose enough for the sky to be its archetypical blue.  I cast another sun spell, enhancing my binocular vision so that I may better look upon the mansion grounds.

    The yuukas dutifully tend to the gardens: either devouring the weeds, or watering the flowers with “happy pee,” harmless sugar water.  Enough sleepy meilings guard the perimeter that nothing escapes their collective notice.  It seems even the universe mocks our gatekeeper’s rest states.

    I shift my view along the grounds, past the very alert Meiling, and over to the lake surrounding the mansion.  Colorful, mismatching swarms of fairies frolic just above the surface, alongside several bobbing aquatic yukkuris doing the same.  The scene is quite pretty from a distance; up close, and it’s on of the reasons I’ll never have children.  I’ve met two fairies I’m willing to converse with at length; one prefers to read all the time, the other enjoys the company of Cirno.

    Over at the lake’s edge is a domed iceberg: the aforementioned ice fairy’s ever-changing ice fortress.  Its interior’s design is amateurish at best, but still engaging.  I hope she never causes an Incident, the Black-White will surely burn through it to get to her.

    I turn my head toward the direction I need to go, taking in the beautiful horizon of my homeland, Gensokyo, a wonderland out of my bedtime stories (Eurocentricity of my childhood reading notwithstanding).  I daresay I consider myself patriotic towards this anarchic non-nation.

    Enough introspection, I have work to do.

    With a brief chant and mudra, I conjure a helmet and goggles on my head, and pads on my limb joints – colored pink, of course.  Sad that Meiling’s the only one who respects such practicality.  Suitably prepared, I fly down south to the Forest of Magic, forcing myself to keep my chin up lest I pitch downward.  I fly low, treetop height, so I can see where I’m going as much as possible.  I keep my body tight against itself, lest aerodynamic unevenness cause me to tumble mid-air.  I speed through the air as fast as I can, about 160 kilometers-per-hour, knowing I’ll be sore a day later.  Koa will just have to pamper me.

    I’m soon over the Human Village, briefly.  In about half a minute, I’m gone.

    I’ll be slowing down soon.

    I see the Forest of Magic just on the horizon.

    As I get close enough to notice differences in shade along the trees, I slow down to a tenth my speed and lower my altitude to body height above ground level.

    I could fly above the canopy, then descend when my orb informs me I’m just above Miss Margatroid’s residence, but experience has taught me that doing such would catch the bothersome interest of the local fairy population.  I’d rather not get into any fights that would leave me a tired, sweating heap, able to rise only when the damnable Black-White stumbles upon-

    Never mind that. 

    After long seconds decelerating, I enter the forest.

    I’m no tengu or Black-White, but I’m nimble enough to manoeuvre through a forest at running speed without collision.  Now slow enough that aerodynamics are no longer a concern, I conjure a protective sphere of water around myself, and swiftly float between the trees.  I follow the direction my orb informs me to go, and I’m getting clos-

    A horrid tableau spreads before me.

    The clearing surrounding the once-stately Margatroid Residence is littered with the dead and dying bodies of alices; maddened grins, oozing custard, and priapic genitalia clearly visible.  This does nothing to deter the still-living among them for trying to rape every yukkuri of a different species; what does are the dozens of heavily-armed dolls deftly floating and looping just above the ground, slicing at any of the wretched creatures they come across.

    I dismiss my conjured helmet, joint pads, and water shell to better appreciate the- **_oh, gods, it reeks of custard!_**   Fresh and rancid, it’s as pungent as any trophy-specimen I’ve taken vengeance on near the end of the war.

    I focus on the now to stave off past concerns.  The dolls are able to discriminate between “raper” and “city-sect” alices, leaving the later (few that there are) unmolested.  Several marisas flee in terror from what would certainly be slow and painful death of starvation-by-impregnation, though a few maintain their stereotypical braggadocio and engage the loathsome parodies in combat, successfully more often than not, tackling and tearing at the wretched little things.

    The alices seem to be converging on several points in the clearing, I suspect the reason for the yukkuri invasion will become apparent there.  I float over for a closer look, and look down into the center of one cluster.

     _“Nhooo!  Nhooo!”_

    I can just barely make out a yukkuri doll; wiggling her behind in what I assume is a mating display, and calling out something I can’t make out over the rutting and grunting of the alices fighting each other over this dildonic lure.

    Having had enough, I float over to the house door and rap it sharply.  Several seconds later, the resident opens the door, scowling in my direction.

    “Good morning, Miss Margatroid” I begin, “I apologize if I’ve come at a bad time-”

    “No you haven’t.  No, it’s not a good morning.”  She massages her forehead with a hand.  “I just want these things **_gone_**.”

    “I need only shape self-disposing traps for you to place the lures in, and the infestation should take care of itself,” I tell her.  How the Black-White can put up with her in this mood, I doubt I’ll truly know; probably the same thing that powers her favored weapon.

    “Fine, let’s do this,” she replies.  I turn around and float straight ahead to the nearest tree line, hoping that demonstrating my workmanship will ease her out of this laconic funk.  She was much better conversation when I described my yukkuri trap’s biological and semiotic mechanics.  It’s so good to have a client actually understand me.

    We pass over the raging battlefield, and we’re soon at a medium tree.  I turn around to Miss Margatroid; she thankfully looks more stern than angry now, and she’s holding a marisa yukkuri doll.  I hold my tongue lest I anger my client with ribald speculations.  Besides, unlike her paramour, she’s a proper lady.

    “Before I begin, do you have any questions?” I ask.

    “No, we discussed everything yesterday.  Just let me see what you can do.”

    I nod, and turn back around to the tree.  My plan is simple: turn this tree into a miniature grove concealing a pit trap, then repeat the process ninety-five times on other trees surrounding Miss Margatroid’s property.  However, even summarized, the exact process will be complicated.  A tree is not just a trunk; it is dozens of branches holding thousands of leaves, each one a vital feeding and respiratory organ; it is also a complicated root system, fractally branching out and binding with the earth on a microscopic level, drawing up water and minerals.

    Essentially, a tree is a microcosm of the Western elemental system: fire, air, water, and earth…but I digress.

    A trunk is a complex and centralized structure, xylem and phloem of varying densities, and thus not as simple to sculpt as soft clay.  I would have to essentially take it apart and reconstruct it on the cellular level were I operating on a purely physical paradigm.  I’m thankfully not so hindered.

    To grossly oversimplify my procedure, a depressing necessity when applying pedagogy to initiates, I will convince the spirit of this tree that it has always been a pseudo-predatory plant, while applying a metaphysical overlay template on the microphysical topology, enabling the initial subject biology to reconfigure itself into my design.

    I perform the necessary visualizations, incantations, and gestures; the most layfolk understand about magic, sadly.  Such actions are not mere trappings; gestures make explicit the meaningful symbolism necessary for the desired changes, incantations speak to the spirits of the tree and its soil in the most precise manner possible, and visualization makes sure I know exactly what I’m doing on the physical level.

    The process takes about a minute.

    I take a deep breath; not needing to stave off any nausea, but not wanting to take chances just the same; and examine a job well done.  The space between each trunk is just large enough for a yukkuri to squeeze through with enough single-minded effort, and the 2x1 meter pit will prevent any from escaping.

    “Looks like a good start,” Miss Margatroid says as she crams her doll lure-

    “Yo, Alice, ya have any spares ya haven’t killed yet?”

    Of _course_ the Black-White stalks me with her bothersome presence.  I reassure myself as best I can that she’s currently interested in my client and not my library.

    I turn to the hoyden casually tromping toward us, holding what looks like a severed head by…

    She’s holding a dead raper alice by its penis.  I await the imminent exchange with curiosity and dread.

    Miss Margatroid just growls.  “Marisa, what are you doing touching that thing?!  Put it down, now!”

    “I jus’ wanna show ya what I’m lookin’ for, kay?”

    “Why in my mother’s name do you _want_ one of those things?”

    “They’re the best sex toys I’ve ever had, yeah?”

    “WHAT?!”

    This is both disgusting and hilarious.  It’s all I can do not to laugh.

    “I’ve been in the mood for some cock, but rent boys are expensive, an’ cum tastes nasty anyway, y’know?  So I’ve been suckin’ an’ fuckin’ these things-”

    She reeks of custard more than she does her usual body odor, and there’s a bit dribbled by her lip-

    “RRRRRAAARRRRRGGGHHHHH!”

    With a primal scream, Alice rips the raper out of Marisa’s hand, snapping the dead yukkuri from its penis, and smashes the once-living custard bun in the Black-White’s now white-yellow face.

    “YOU!  INSIDE!  SHOWER!  NOW!”

    Before the lewd delinquent can taste her dead sex toy, several dolls swarm and jab at her.

    “OW!  Hey!  Quit it!  Shit!  You cut me!”

    “HAHAHAHAHA! *cough* HAHAHAHA…”

    Like a swarm of vengeful wasps, they chase her towards the Margatroid residence, the proprietress stomping behind at a furious pace, shouting invectives.  I can’t make out what she’s saying over my laughter.  After several seconds, they’ve gone inside.

    I  *cough* take -pant- deep breaths…  I need to breathe to work…

    Inhale…

    Exhale…

    Repeat…

    Much better.

    Now that it’s relatively quite, with only dying ruttings audible several meters away, I hear something from my first raper trap.

    “-isa can’t take it easy -ze!  Marisa needs to refresh with easy Alice -ze!  Marisa craves Alice’s braggable peni-peni -ze!  Marisa can’t-”

    As the bait screeches out what I suppose is an alluring cry to raper alices, I turn to another tree to continue my work, leaving the very odd couple to their conjugal bliss.

    I have a long da-

    “Excuse Alice, Miss Human, but Alice has a question.”

    I look down to see an alice and marisa couple; bouncing around them in varying states of attention and interest are about a dozen (eleven, if precise numbers really matter) children, _koyukkuris_ in common parlance.

    The alice looks up at me.  “Alice thinks Mister Grove is not city-sect, but Marisa thinks this will be our new easy place.”

    Her mate bobs vigorously.  “The Great Marisa has an eye for these things-ze.  It’s a bunch’a trees in a circle, which is what a easy place looks like, y’know?”

    “It looks like an easy place to trick uneasy yukkuris,” I tell them.  “Inside these trees is Mister Pit, where yukkuris will fall in and never be able to take it easy again.”  Speaking with yukkuri grammar is quite droll, but effective.

    The marisa glares at me.  “Why would you do that!  Little ones could die because of you!”

    In spite of her initial stupidity, she cares for her children and has a good point.  Perhaps she can comprehend reason.  “If you’ll listen, there’s a fake yukkuri at the bottom of Mister Pit, that’s to trick raper alices into the uneasy place so they won’t hurt yukkuris.  Little ones should stay away from where rapers go anyway.”

    “Alice knew this place couldn’t take it easy, but Marisa never listens.”  A universal constant.

    An alice ko bounces toward my trap, and certain death. “Awise wanna pway wif Mawicha.”

    With fast reflexes for a human, the marisa snatches her wayward daughter with her teeth.  “Stay away from Mister Grove Trap!”  She possesses a relatively advanced vocabulary, competent parenting skills, and, most importantly, understood what I told her.  She’s a credit to her rac-

    “Nhoo-ho-ho!  Alice will refresh with easy little o-”

    ZAM!

    My reflexes are fast for a human’s, too, and one elementary sun spell is all it takes to instantly transmute the raper into a circle of charred custard.  The other yukkuris hop away from me, screaming.  Good, fear of excessive force will improve their odds for survival given how humans overact to their bumbling.

    I turn back to the next tree I’ll be working on.  I have a long day ahead of me, and the soon I get this done without interruptions, the sooner I can take it easy with Koa.

**Author's Note:**

> My first 1st person fic, and it's from Patchouli's point of view. As a result, there're paragraphs of exposition, and the humor's as dry as a burnt cracker...at least until Marisa comes in.
> 
> Also notable is that every character I write ends up being unchaste.
> 
> Again, I decide to visit some common yukkuri tropes, and specifically how the local notables of Gensokyo deal with them. I can imagine that Patchouli would be a bit annoyed with friendly cute things infesting her reading tables. I can imagine that it's be much worse for Alice...
> 
> Among other things, I have Patchouli replicate Universe 25, which you may have read about in Cracked. Universe 25 is a study of mouse overpopulation in a laboratory environment with endless food and no predators; the mice all become psycho killers or asocial groomers, and the research strongly hinted that humans will be soon. His findings have been disputed.
> 
> I have no experience with coffee, but I can fake it with a bit of online research. I decided to have Patchouli like sweet flavors.
> 
> Patchouli's British in my headcanon, thus her word choices.
> 
> I also reference Eastern Starlight Romance, the Touhou visual novel I really hope Iced Fairy completes.
> 
>  
> 
> Yukkuri notes to note: 
> 
> • Yukkuris speak in third person, and often refer to objects as "Mister [object]."
> 
> • Yukkuri types are referred to by the character they're modeled after. Since the character names are not proper nouns in this case, I've opted not to capitalize them.
> 
> • Patchouli yukkuris are generally friendly yukkuris who only want to read, though a few will use their relative intellects for evil schemes. Patchoulis are filled with raw cream.
> 
> • Alice yukkuris are often nymphomaniacal rapists, but many are simply fussy homemakers. In addition to "easy" and "uneasy," Alices will use "city-sect" and "country bumpkin" to describe good and bad. Alices are filled with custard.


End file.
